Max got out and looked around.
“The area was originally settled by Italian immigrants when Europeans flooded the region in the early nineteenth century. Boca means mouth because we’re at the mouth of the river,” Lucy told him. “The story is that the mismatched colors of the houses originate from using whatever was left over from painting the boats.”
Max inclined his head.
A young boy with shiny black hair and eyes as dark as his own pretended not to stare at Lucy’s car. Lucy spotted him too. She locked the Mini and walked over to the kid. She flashed a bill and spoke in a rapid stream of Spanish. She pointed at the car and at Max and then put the larger bill into her bag and waved it around before handing him a smaller one.
The kid said something, and Lucy started in on another long stream of Spanish. She sounded like a local and showed no fear.
Max thought about the woman who’d virtually hidden behind the door when he’d met the ambassador. That was not the same woman bribing and threatening this kid to make sure her car wasn’t stolen or stripped while they were gone.
“What did you say to him?” Max asked when they started walking south of the main drag.
“I told him you were a cutthroat assassin who would find him and kill him in his bed if he let anyone so much as lay a finger on my car. I also promised him more cash if it looked exactly the same when we got back.”
Carrot and a stick. He was the stick. “Is that the approved diplomatic approach?”
Lucy gave him the side eye. Her stride was loose and confident—as if she belonged here. Max added a certain swagger to his gait. It was important not to look like a victim in order not to become one. It was one of a million variables that influenced how predators picked their targets.
“The van was ditched a few blocks from here.” She strode down a narrow lane and then south again into a dirtier, dingier part of the neighborhood. There were glimpses of decayed Spanish architecture amongst what amounted to a shanty town in places interspersed with the occasional palm tree. The scent of garbage wafted from a dumpster.
They walked onto another street that was cooler under the shade of some dark, leafy trees. She didn’t pause to check her bearings or hesitate in any way. She went right and then left until they hit a small, deserted alley.
“Here.” She pointed.
Max scanned the nearby houses. No cameras. Even if there had been, they wouldn’t have lasted the night. The doors and windows were all shut up tight. It had an abandoned feel to the place.
He raised his gaze and saw a quick movement as someone immediately withdrew from a window. Max spotted an entryway in an adobe wall. He walked over, muscled open the gate before climbing the outside staircase and knocking on the door of a ramshackle apartment.
Chapter Seven
Lucy muttered a curse as she followed the negotiator up the rickety staircase. “Where are you going?”
Max ignored her. Of course, he did.
Lucy glanced around nervously. This was not the sort of place where it was wise to go off the grid. This neighborhood could swallow someone whole and not even spit out the bones.
Max knocked loudly enough to attract attention inside the rundown apartment. The two of them were hidden from general view by the dense foliage that formed a canopy around the small veranda. There was only one apartment up here. The brief glimpse she’d seen of the person suggested an older woman lived here, but it didn’t mean she lived alone.
Neither she nor Max Hawthorne were armed as far as she could tell, and the last thing she needed was a bullet-hole to deal with in either herself or the Federal Agent.
Max went to knock on the door again, but Lucy grabbed his hand to stop him. His skin was startlingly warm, and she released him immediately. “Wait. Let me try.”
She leaned closer to the door and spoke softly in Spanish. “Hola? No queremos hacerte daño. ¿Puede ayudarnos, por favor?” Hello? We mean you no harm. Can you help us please?
Max stood close enough she could smell his scent.
The sound of shuffling inside had Lucy tensing. Were they about to meet a gangbanger with a submachine gun, or a mother, or a scared child? She raised her brows at Max as they both moved to the side of the doorway in an effort to avoid gunfire should the worst-case scenario become a reality.
The door opened a crack. An older lady peered out at them, face wrinkled, faded brown eyes full of fear.
“Sorry to bother you on Christmas Day, señora.” Lucy spoke in Spanish. “We are looking for information about an incident that occurred down in the alley yesterday evening.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you.” The woman also replied in Spanish and tried to shut the door.
Max’s running shoe was planted firmly in the gap and, while he didn’t use his size to intimidate the woman, he was over six foot of solid male and probably scared the shit out of her.
“Ask if she saw a car parked in the alley for any length of time yesterday,” Max insisted.
“She doesn’t want to talk to us.” Lucy didn’t want to bully an old lady.
“Ask her.”
Lucy blew an annoyed breath out of her nose and glared at him. She detested being ordered around and figured she didn’t have to be quite as compliant and obedient as she usually was when she was outside the embassy and alone with Hawthorne. He wasn’t a fixture in her life, and she was unlikely to be spending much time with him in the future. But, even though she wanted to tell him to take a hike, the stakes were too high. She couldn’t afford for word of her actions to get back to the embassy. And then there was Kristen, a sweet and harmless young woman, and Irene, a feisty and strong individual who’d only been taken because she’d tried to defend her friend.
Lucy spoke in rapid-fire Spanish. “Please, they took two friends of ours. Two innocent young women. We are trying to get them home to their families to celebrate Christmas.” She appealed to the woman’s empathy and religion, hoping it might override her fear of strangers or reprisal. “Was there a car parked down there yesterday?” She pointed to the alleyway. “Or possibly a van?”
The woman’s mouth turned down in defeat, and she seemed to deflate. “No one can see you here.”
After another brief hesitation, she opened the door and ushered them inside.
Lucy glanced around the small living room. It had a massive, old-fashioned TV. Brightly colored throws and cushions covered the sofa. Faded prints of showy flowers covered the walls. A tiny kitchen with huge, antique-looking appliances was visible through a doorway that had a beaded curtain, then a small corridor led off the room, probably to a bedroom and bathroom.
There was no evidence of anyone else being in the apartment, although they could be hiding in one of the other rooms.
Lucy stood awkwardly inside the door. She glanced to the side and saw a stack of mail addressed to Señora Abigail Blanco.
Max sat on the opposite side of the couch to the woman. His hands were clasped, elbows resting on strong thighs. Making himself smaller, she realized, and less of a threat.
He certainly didn’t look like a Fed in those board shorts or with those boyish good looks.
“We don’t mean to cause you any distress,” Max began.
Lucy interpreted in a gentle voice trying to mimic Max’s tone.
“We know a vehicle was parked in the alley below yesterday evening. Did you see it?”
Lucy repeated Max’s words, but it was his soft baritone that cast a spell.
“I can’t talk to the police. I don’t trust the police.” The old woman’s fingers knotted with agitation. Her shoulders were hunched from a lifetime of hard labor. “They will find out it was me, and they will beat me and kill me.”
Lucy interpreted for the woman and watched Max acknowledge the woman’s fear of not only the criminals but also local law enforcement.
“We are not the Argentine police. We will not reveal our sources, ma’am. We won’t betray any information you give us.”
Lucy rep
eated the words, but she could tell the old woman was already hooked on Max’s promises. She didn’t even need to speak the same language to trust the man. Must be a negotiator’s psychic mind trick as his voice was also lulling Lucy into a feeling of safety too. She needed to remember his specialties when dealing with him in the future.
“Did you see a white van at all yesterday? Probably around five thirty PM?” Max asked.
The old woman’s lips compressed, and she ran her veiny hands over the long, orange skirt she wore.
“Si,” she whispered. “I saw three or four men, and they were moving something from a van to the trunk of a car. I did not see what it was.” Her hands moved faster over her skirt, gripping the material in agitation.
“Could it have been a young woman?” Or two?
She nodded then looked away.
“What kind of car?” Max asked. Lucy translated the question. Due to the intense nature of the interview and her part in it, Lucy found it hard to maintain her usual background position. Maybe it didn’t matter here today, but she would need to find a way to extricate herself from being with this man and on the front lines of this investigation. This wasn’t her job.
An image of Kristen rose in her mind, and she knew it wouldn’t be so easy to abandon the two young women if there was any way she could help. But her work was important too, and she wasn’t paid to be an interpreter.
The old woman shook her head. “I didn’t see. I don’t remember.”
Conflicting statements but a reminder that getting involved could cost the woman her life, and they all knew it. The police weren’t going to provide 24/7 protection to one old lady in the barrio. The police could be the problem. Corruption was rife. The old woman was on her own. No backup. No support.
She spoke quickly. “They left all the van doors open with the keys inside.”
Almost inviting it to be stolen before the cops arrived. What better way to destroy evidence?
The woman wrung her hands. “I went downstairs as I needed to buy milk before the stores closed.” She mashed her lips together.
Max and Lucy exchanged a glance and waited her out. The woman had definitely seen something.
The woman stood abruptly and went to her tiny kitchen and opened the door to her massive refrigerator that looked heavier than Lucy’s Mini. The woman pulled something out of the icebox. Lucy’s pulse gave a skip. It was a cell phone.
“I saw this on the ground. I knew if I left it, it would be stolen.” The woman probably thought she could sell it for a little cash. She held it out to Max.
He didn’t take it. “Ask if she has a plastic bag she can put it in.”
The woman immediately turned around and did as he requested, suggesting her English was better than Lucy had appreciated. Abigail Blanco was trusting them—a pair of strangers—to not get her in trouble with either the police or the kidnappers. It was a humbling responsibility and one they might not be able to uphold.
“Did the police come here and question you last night?” Max asked when the old woman handed Lucy the plastic bag of evidence which she tucked into her small purse.
“If they did, I was not home. I went to Mass. You need to leave now.” She spoke in English and ushered Lucy toward the door. “No one can see you here.”
“One thing.” Max took the woman’s hand and pressed his business card into her palm. “Thank you. If we get these young women home, know that you helped us. We both thank you, as do their parents.”
The woman closed her eyes and muttered a quick prayer. “The men got into an orange VW Passat. It stank of dirty exhaust fumes when they drove away.”
Max squeezed her hand and slipped her some American dollars. He thanked her again.
Lucy opened the door, checking no one was around before slipping outside.
Chapter Eight
“You think she was telling the truth?” Lucy asked.
Max headed down the outside stairs that were in desperate need of repair. He avoided a particularly dodgy-looking step and held his hand out to help Lucy around it too.
He immediately let go of her hand. “Hard to know for sure, but she seemed genuine. She probably saw a lot more than she let on.” Max carefully checked the street. He held the ramshackle gate for Lucy. Manners might be sexist, but they were ingrained in him from birth.
The neighborhood was poor and quiet. It was Christmas Day in a predominantly Christian country.
“I wonder if a VW was also reported stolen yesterday.” Max wrote a note to himself on his phone. “We might be able to get a license plate number from a street camera and trace it.”
“It’s probably burnt-out somewhere.”
Max shrugged. “Or it belongs to one of the crew, and they reported it stolen to cover their tracks. With luck, they aren’t as smart as we think they are.”
“How do we inform the locals without revealing the woman’s identity?”
Max had no intention of outing the woman to anyone outside his immediate circle at CNU. “We have to report finding the cell phone. We can say someone handed it to us in the alley and left without giving their name.”
Shadows were starting to lengthen and thicken between the buildings. He took a few photos of the narrow street with his cell. The van would have filled it almost entirely. Garbage littered the alley, so he really had to wonder how thorough the evidence collection had been. Most of it would be worthless, but it was also possible the locals had missed something. He squatted and scanned the ground.
Lucy bounced on her tiptoes for a few moments and then stopped as if consciously suppressing the outward display of emotion.
“So they left the second getaway car here prior to the kidnapping. Presumably, they would do the same with any subsequent vehicles that were used yesterday? The van was stolen on Wednesday, correct?” she said.
He nodded.
“And all these cars had to be in place at least an hour before the kidnapping took place.” Lucy’s brows furrowed. “It suggests they knew Kristen planned to be out shopping without security at least twenty-four hours in advance of taking her.”
He moved north a few feet, still crouched down as he searched the ground. “It was well organized and thought out. They left vehicles where they would attract minimal notice from the authorities. No cameras and few people. Also, Christmas Eve…it’s a time when routines are broken up and people’s guards are down.” It should have been a time of celebration.
Lucy looked up. He followed her gaze. The sky was darkening to a dull mauve with vivid red clouds. “We should go.”
“Yep.” He went to rise when the glint of something golden near a dandelion caught his attention. He moved closer, took a photograph of the object in situ, tucked the phone back into his zippered pocket. Then he scooped the delicate metal band into a small paper evidence envelope he habitually carried folded in his wallet.
“What is it?” Lucy asked.
“A ring.” He didn’t know if it had anything to do with the case or not. He shoved it into his pocket. The hair on his nape began to vibrate with warning. Footsteps told him someone was coming.
He murmured, “Let’s get out of here.”
A noise from behind them had him glancing over his shoulder as a gang of five youths came into view.
“¡Hey, hombre!” One of the young men shouted. Then he said something Max’s limited Spanish couldn’t decipher, but it didn’t sound like “Merry Christmas.”
They’d lingered too long.
Lucy opened her mouth to say something, but Max shook his head. He didn’t want her getting hurt. Time to move. “Let’s go.”
They began to hurry away and, immediately, shouts went up behind them as the men gave chase.
He and Lucy started running and shot out of the end of the alleyway and turned right. Lucy grabbed his wrist. “This way.”
They raced down a one person-wide gap between buildings. He let Lucy lead. She seemed to know her way around, and it allowed him to cover her back.
A sliver of light up ahead showed their escape route. Lucy sprinted towards it, and Max kept pace with his much longer stride but, boy, she was fast. He wished he was carrying his weapon right now. The realization that he’d put this woman in danger did not sit well.
Just as they were about to exit the narrow gap up ahead, a silhouette appeared of a man carrying a knife. Someone shouted at them. Shit. They were trapped.
Lucy didn’t slow. Neither did he. No way did he want to end up rotting in this cesspit of an alleyway with his carcass ripped apart by rats and feral dogs. No way would he let Lucy get hurt because she’d been forced to accompany him.
“Let me go first,” Max shouted.
Lucy shook her head, breath coming hard, as she pumped her legs even faster.
Damn the woman was quick. His foot slipped on something unidentifiable which cost him a fraction of a second but, thankfully, he didn’t go down.
Up ahead, Max watched Lucy use her momentum to launch herself at the man blocking their way. Despite being solidly built, the guy was unprepared for the flying dropkick that knocked him flat onto his back while Lucy rolled on the ground and came up into a low crouch ready to defend herself from another attack.
Another guy stood to one side, watching them open-mouthed. His hand rested on a pistol stuffed in his waist band. Max put him down with a single strike to the jaw and quickly disarmed him, taking the weapon so it couldn’t be used against them. Both men cowered on the ground as their bravery evaporated.
“Come on.” Max grabbed Lucy’s hand, and they took off again, weaving between people who were milling around. They seemed unconnected to the thugs who were chasing them. People scattered when they saw Max holding a gun, probably fearing they were about to get caught in a firefight.
Cold Cruel Kiss: A heart-stopping and addictive romantic thriller Page 8